


Das Phantom der Oper

by friendlybomber



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Phantom of the Opera Fusion, Christine wasnt sassy enough for me so thats why we have Roderich instead, F/M, Im sincerely sorry to the PTO fandom, M/M, Multi, Phantom of the Opera AU, copious amounts of sexual tension, will update tags with chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-14
Updated: 2016-11-17
Packaged: 2018-08-29 20:21:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8504110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/friendlybomber/pseuds/friendlybomber
Summary: Few recall the mystery of the Phantom of the Opera, which transpired so many years ago in the Berlin Staatsoper. The story lies within the gilded halls of the opera house, buried just beneath the settled dust and soot. The balance of new and forgotten rests in the shadows of the abandoned theatre, waiting patiently to be disturbed with a little illumination. It's the Hetalia Phantom of the Opera AU you never wanted but always needed. Brought to you by a little Pru/Aus/Hun love triangle and my deep and abiding passion for reversed gender roles and the opera.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello. It's me.
> 
> Well, it's been a while since I wrote Hetalia fanfiction. Actually, it's been a while since I've even /watched/ Hetalia. Recently, someone asked me on fanfiction.net to write a Frying Pangle fic in the "Can't Help" universe. This little baby has been germinating within me like an evil seed since probably before I wrote "I Cant Help Falling in Love With You." While it isn't necessarily what was asked of me, you'll have to cut me some slack here - I've been thinking about writing this for so long that it was really my next logical step. 
> 
> This fic. is a disgusting. an unnecessary. combination of my two favorite things in the world - Phantom of the Opera, and writing shitty fanfiction. Many madly loving apologies to the Italy brothers - /someone/ had to be Carlotta, and it wasn't gonna be me.
> 
> I think it's funny to imagine Prussia of all people teaching Austria about music. But well. If the Phantom was using whole-tone scales before his time, I dont see why a little death metal couldnt be introduced to 1881 Germany. So, without further ado, here is the Hetalia Phantom of the Opera AU you never wanted: Das Phantom der Oper.

**Overture.**

Few recall the mystery of the Phantom of the Opera, which transpired so many years ago in the Berlin Staatsoper. Fewer still recall the truth of the matter. The story lies within the gilded halls of the opera house, buried just beneath the settled dust and soot. The balance of new and forgotten rests in the shadows of the abandoned theatre, waiting patiently to be disturbed with a little illumination.

 

 

**Act I.**

The year was 1881. The Berlin Staatsoper had been remodeled twenty years prior, and stood in the city as a robust testament to the historicist architectural moods of the time. It was a grand building, built in three many-windowed tiers, topped with angelic stone guardians, wings spread toward the city. Electric lights shone without twinkle or flicker from golden candelabrums in the high-domed atrium and around the red velvet theatre proper, and in the arched windows at night, when they lit the edifice in otherworldly splendor. Within the theatre, the walls portrayed murals of cherubs and nymphs and gods, and a magnificent crystal chandelier levitated above the deep plush seats. The Staatsoper was, without a doubt, the premier triumph in modern art and architecture, and held the admiration and appreciation of many rich and stately guests.

At the time, the glory of the Staatsoper was at its height, despite rumblings of the manager’s retirement. He was a well-built Italian man, who held a lifelong interest in the arts. He was notorious for flirtation and his omnipresent lurid giggle, and even more notorious for flagrant nepotism; his two grandsons, both brilliant singers, held the primary male and female roles in every production for five seasons straight. And while Lovino and Feliciano Vargas were by no means unskilled, unworthy, or unwelcome on the stage, the elder brother’s temperament was less than ideal.

The Vargas line aside, the Staatsoper represented the zenith of German artistic genius. The orchestra was under the direction of an old Swiss rifleman, a contemporary of Wagner himself, and was notable for not only its incomparable technical skill, but also its expressive emotionalism. The chorus accepted only the most accomplished vocalists, all of whom were capable of acting and dancing just as well as the leading men and women of other reputable opera companies across the country. But the ballet – the ballet was the pride of the Berlin Staatsoper.

Under the direction of Herr Beilschmidt, a blue-eyed, hard-faced man who had aged like the fine wine in the cellars beneath the Staatsoper, the ballet worked tirelessly to produce exquisite performances beyond compare. Each dancer practiced for hours each day, pushed to perfection by the unwavering ballet master. Among the dancers was Herr Beilschmidt’s own grandson, Ludwig, and, on occasion, when his role in the chorus overlapped with that of the dancers, the fair Roderich Edelstein, orphaned at a young age and raised in the opera house.

It was the winter season of 1881, and the Staatsoper’s production of _Walhalla_ was in its final stages of rehearsal before the opening gala that evening. The actors traipsed about the stage as set designers added last-minute additions to the scenery and seamstresses repaired fake tresses and robes. Tensions were high; the last-minute scurry to complete the show clouded everyone’s minds. The maestro oversaw rehearsal, grimacing.

Lovino Vargas, the older of the Vargas brothers, was well into an overly-ornamented and certainly un-notated cadenza, when his brother, a sopranist playing his female counterpart, stepped on his costume. His voice cut out mid-phrase and he glared murderously over at young Feliciano, breaking character.

“Don’t you step on my cloak, little brother,” he snapped in Italian, drawing the heavy fur around himself and strutting off a little farther down the stage.

“I’m so sorry, big brother Lovino!” Feliciano replied. “Please keep singing!”

“How can I keep singing if you keep stepping on my costume?” he hissed back. He jumped back into his piece regardless with one last angry curse, snapping his fingers at the maestro to adjust to his tempo.

The dancers slowed down to accommodate the sudden ritardando. Roderich pulled himself back just in time to avoid landing from a tour jeté on Ludwig’s heels. He followed the new tempo by moving into his piqué turn, forcing the man behind him to bump his arms out of position.

“That Italian diva,” he cursed as he adjusted. “He wouldn’t know compound time from a barline if it hit him between the eyes.”

“I will never understand those brothers,” Ludwig replied with vague disgust.

As the rehearsal progressed, unaided by Lovino’s increasingly prevalent pauses to snap a command, curious eyes fell on the Vargas brothers’ grandfather, who led around two blonde gentlemen of apparent affluence. The first was a terse-looking fellow with bushy black eyebrows and a spotty complexion, undoubtedly British. The second was taller, lither, and handsomer, with flowing blond hair and a fair, well-groomed face. The owner of the Staatsoper was speaking to them rapidly, explaining this hidden nook or that tricky wire to the two men, who looked rather scared and interested in the workings of the opera house. As they inspected the dancers practicing farther upstage, Ludwig nodded to the two men.

“They’ve come to buy the opera,” he muttered.

“What?” replied Roderich as he gracefully dipped around his dance partner. “They look as if they’ve never been in an opera house in their entire lives. They’ve probably spent their years working in the scrap metal business or something uncouth like that.” Ludwig only grunted in response.

The mystery men eyed the dancers as if they were a decadent buffet. Roderich twisted past the tall handsome man, drawing his gaze. From upstage, Lovino looked particularly off-put that no one was paying attention to him.

“The dancers are well-trained,” commented the prettier man. His accent betrayed French origins. He was walking alongside Herr Beilschmidt now, glaring at the dancers lecherously. “And their skimpy outfits are certainly a plus.”

“That blond man over there, the handsome one,” the other man said. He seemed to be exhibiting more restraint than his counterpart. “His dancing is marvelous.”

“My grandson, Ludwig,” Beilschmidt replied. Trace amounts of pride betrayed the toughness of his voice.

“And the gorgeous brunet with him? No relation?” the Frenchman prodded. Roderich felt his eyes on his skin even as he bent away in terpsichorean grace.

“Roderich Edelstein. A talented young man,” replied Beilschmidt. “He lacks stamina, but he shows great promise.”

“Edelstein?” the Englishman asked in keen interest. “As in the famous Austrian pianist, Sophia Edelstein?”

Beilschmidt nodded. “Roderich is her son.”

“Fascinating… orphaned, then?” The Frenchman could not keep the eagerness from slipping into his voice.

“I consider him my own flesh and blood,” Beilschmidt replied, sending a stern look to the visitor.

From downstage, Lovino was pushing the tempo again as the piece neared its end. Roderich stumbled, for Ludwig doubled back quicker than he expected. The dancers grumbled at the shift in their choreography, finding it impossible to get back into the same counts. A great golden chariot rattled lackadaisically across the stage. Lovino and Feliciano held out two stunning high notes in harmony. The maestro fought to control the orchestra as they sped well behind his control. Despite finishing on two separate beats, the final notes of the show rang through the hall impressively. The two blond men clapped.

“It is not a race, ladies and gentlemen,” the maestro lectured, regardless of the commendations from the two men. “And _I should not get there last._ ”

“You follow _my_ lead,” Lovino snapped at the maestro. He turned to wag a finger at Feliciano. “And you! Can’t you sing in tune?”

“I’m sorry, _fratello!_ I don’t want to upset you, but it was actually you who was out of tune this time!”

“What did you say to me, you-”

“Now then, gentleman!” the current manager chirped, clapping the blond men on the shoulders. “Now is as good a time as any. Why don’t we get this over with?” His face suddenly fell grave and gray. “Before my nerves wear out.”

Lovino stood with his arms crossed center stage, face red as a tomato and twisted into the sour facsimile of a person who had been sucking on a lemon. His brother was babbling at him in fast-paced Italian, begging forgiveness and encouraging him to try better next time.

“Grandpa!” he accused, pointing his finger now at the older Italian man instead. “Why is it that every time we do a production, everyone is a fricking idiot? The _choro_ sounds like a pack of dying cats! Feliciano keeps a-stepping on my cloak! My makeup is ridiculous! No one is listening to me!”

Always the charmer, his grandfather heaved a great tired sigh. “Lovino, you spoiled little shit, can you be quiet for one second,” he replied. Then, louder, he drew in the employees and artists around the opera house with a simple, “I have an announcement to make.”

Roderich and Ludwig watched from across the stage, huddled within the group of ballet dancers. At Roderich’s behest, Ludwig allowed him to lean on him to regain his breath. The stage swarmed with people of all positions at the opera house, all pressing to hear what the owner had to say.

Unbeknownst to the dancers, or the actors, or the American stagehand who was so found of scaring the youth of the Staatsoper with his fanciful stories, a pale shadow moved in the rafters.

Beilschmidt picked up an ivory envelope and tucked it into his pocket.

"I’m sure you’ve all heard the rumors that I’m finally retiring,” the owner started. “Normally, you shouldn’t believe everything you hear, but fortunately for you, the rumors are true.”

The Vargas brothers gasped and clutched each other. Apparently, their grandfather had not informed them of his decision prior to his announcement. A cerebral mummer spread through the crowd. Several quick financial exchanges occurred. The owner held up his hands to silence the crowd.

“Yes, yes, I know, it’s-a very depressing. But! I’d like to introduce you to my replacements, the Berlin Staatsoper’s new owners: Herr Francis Bonnefoy and Herr Arthur Kirkland.”

Kirkland, the Englishman, nodded and offered a mild wave, while Bonnefoy shot a dazzling smile into the gathering crowd and winked at a ballet dancer, causing her to faint. Ludwig shifted uncomfortably, scrutinizing the new owners.

“They must be rich,” he commented. “Rich, and stupid to willingly work here.”

“They won’t last the season,” Roderich replied, arching his eyebrow.

"Joining us tonight at the gala will also be our new patroness, the Gräfin von und zu Héderváry. Now, shall we demonstrate to these fine gentleman exactly what it is we _do_ here at the Staatsoper?” the Vargas brothers’ grandfather continued. He fixed his eldest grandson with a look. “The aria at the end of Act I, Lovino?” Without waiting for a response, he turned back to the new owners. “Well, good luck. If you need me, I’ll be in Rome. Don’t,” he added sharply, “need me.” He breezed out of the hall and the Staatsoper’s world forever.

The two wide-eyed men swiveled around, lost. Lovino sized up the new owners, squaring his shoulders. After apparently deciding that he didn’t loathe them as much as he loathed most Germans, he nodded theatrically to the maestro. In a beat, the sweeping strings of the score filled the theatre. Lovino took a deep, low breath, still looking right at the men who replaced his grandfather, and began to sing.

His rich spinto voice filled the opera house, adding so much rubato the owners struggled to determine exactly what time signature the piece was supposedly written in. They smiled pleasantly nonetheless, taking in the handsome young man’s presentation. Hands low at his side, Roderich scowled in annoyance and flicked his wrist to the proper tempo of the piece. 

Lovino had barely gotten five bars into the aria when, unexpectedly, a set piece plummeted from the ceiling. It fell with a great clatter, and narrowly missed landing directly on the young tenor’s head. He leapt away yelping as the theatre broke into anxious whispers. They craned their necks to get a better sight of the rafters, but the American stagehand was alone among the ropes.

“It’s him,” Roderich breathed to Ludwig.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Ludwig shot back, although he was pale, and his hands trembled slightly.

“What the hell was that?” Lovino screeched up to the rafters. Tears were streaming from his eyes. He shook violently, either with rage or with fear – it was impossible to tell which.

“Sorry dude,” the stagehand called back. “That totally wasn’t me. I wasn’t even near it! It’s, like, totally the ghost!” The performers moaned. A chill overtook the theatre.

“What the hell is going on here?” Kirkland demanded, looking around the theatre wildly from cast member to cast member. “Someone explain. What are you lot talking about?”

“The Phantom of the Opera,” Beilschmidt replied gravely.

“The Phantom of the- ridiculous! Everyone settle down! Herr Vargas, are you quite alright?”

Lovino, for his part, was cursing magnificently in Italian, pausing now and then to comfort his whimpering brother. He pointed a wobbling finger at the managers, murder in his eyes.

"You can’t expect my brother and me to work like this!” he snarled. “I have rights, you hear me?”

“Herr Vargas, please-” the Frenchman began dulcetly.

"I don’t want to hear it, Frenchy! Don’t think you can-a just waltz in here after my grandpa and expect me to respect you or listen to your stupid excuses! I’m not an idiot, you hear me, froggy bastard?”

“It was a simple accident, sir,” Kirkland protested. “This sort of thing happens all the time!”

Lovino’s face turned a brilliant shade of red. “I almost died, you shepherd pie-eating barrel monkey! I am not putting up with this anymore! I can’t take it! Until you stop these things from happening, this thing –” he gesticulated angrily at himself and his brother “-does not happen! Come on, Feliciano. We’re getting out of this hellhole.”

The brothers vacated the stage, Lovino as a thundering cloud and Feliciano as a frightened boy. The owners chased after them at the maestro’s advice, pleading with clasped hands that they stay, that they would work this out, that the stage needed them. He turned up his nose at them. No amount of schmoozing and worship would convince the Italian diva and his submissive brother. They finally disappeared from earshot, Lovino cursing loudly and screaming for his Spanish assistant to bring around their carriage.

Kirkland threw his hands up.

“The first day, Francis! We’re ruined on the _first day_!”

“Relax, _mon ami_. There is still hope.” He did not sound so convinced.

Ever the bearer of ill omens, Beilschmidt approached the new owners. He held out the mysterious ivory envelope. “A note for you, sirs. From the Opera Ghost.”

Kirkland scoffed. “The Opera Ghost indeed! Stop it with this nonsense!”

Francis squinted at the envelope. “What does it say?”

Beilschmidt opened it and began to read from a small note scrawled in a nigh-illegible black hand. His voice was simple, emotionless, but he read every word with piercing intent. “He bids you welcome to his opera house and reminds you that box five is to be left empty for him. He also wishes you to know that his salary is due.”

“ _His_ opera house?”

“ _Salary?_ ”

Beilschmidt handed off the letter. “Herr Vargas paid him almost 571,000 marks a month.”

Francis paled. “ _Please_ tell me that isn’t as much as I think it is. Arthur, quick, pull out an Arithmometer.”

“Can you not afford more? Is not the Gräfin von und zu Héderváry your new patroness?”

“We can’t afford anything!” Kirkland cried indignantly. “We can’t pull off a production of _Walhalla_ if we have no Siegfried on opening night! We’ll have to refund the house!”

“There is no hope,” Bonnefoy mourned.

Beilschmidt left the yelping men’s sides and made his way over to where his son and Roderich stood among the dancers. He leaned in to the two young men. “Are you hurt?” They shook their heads, and he rested back, content.

“There is nothing to worry about, Opa,” Ludwig said. “The rumors of the Phantom of the Opera are just stories. It was a simple accident.”

Beilschmidt met his grandson’s serious look with one of his own. “Never be sure, Ludwig.”

The theatre was a cacophony of panic at the departure of the Vargas brothers. The actors were tearing their hair out trying to figure a way out of the mess they were in. Lovino’s tantrums were nothing new, but he had never walked out on the production on opening night before. Kirkland approached the maestro, tugging at his tweed jacket nervously.

“Maestro, does anyone else know the part?” he asked. “Doesn’t he have an understudy, or-”

The maestro fixed him with a cold, even stare. “Lovino Vargas’s ego would never allow for an understudy. Go beg for him back.”

Kirkland huffed. “Chap, there must be _someone_ who can sing the part!” The maestro frowned at the dense Englishman, preparing to spell it out in simpler terms.

Herr Beilschmidt cleared his throat. “Roderich Edelstein can sing it.”

A hush fell on the theatre. “Herr Edelstein, you say? A chorus boy?”

Beilschmidt nodded. “He’s good.”

Kirkland heaved a great sigh, looking to the ceiling as if the answers to all his woes and a bottle of rum were plastered up among the painted cherubim. “Very well. I suppose we have no other options.”

Roderich shot a panicked look at Beilschmidt, who simply nodded slightly in encouragement. His fellow dancers pushed him forward. He straightened up, adjusted his costume, and looked to the maestro, who appeared dangerously close to pulling out his old rifle from the war.

“Your teacher, Herr Edelstein,” Bonnefoy asked. “Who is he?”

Roderich bit his lip. “I- I don’t know his name.”

Kirkland closed his eyes. “Let’s get this over with.”

The maestro shook his head and lifted his arms to conduct. “Take it from the beginning, sir,” he simply said.

Roderich nodded, letting the anxiety wash out of him. This was music. Music, he could do.

The opening bars of the gentle aria sounded. All eyes were on Roderich, curious to see who this young chorus boy thought he was. Roderich relaxed and took a slow breath.

“This is never going to wor-” Kirkland immediately halted his complaint when Roderich began to sing. Several voices gasped.

“Arthur, my bitter little friend,” Bonnefoy smiled, “I think our problem is solved.”

 

 

**The Aria.**

The patrons of the Berlin Staatsoper on the opening night of _Walhalla_ were just as glitzy and glamorous as the opera house itself. They poured into the theatre like sparkling mice into a sewer, hopping out of coaches and carriages drawn by teams of fine white horses. They positively dripped with expensive furs and jewels as they swaggered through the grand entrance in expectation of another overdramatic performance from the great Vargas brothers. Little did they know, however, that they were about to experience a historic performance well beyond the limits of Lovino Vargas.

Among them was the Gräfin Elizabeta von und zu Héderváry, the Hungarian-German noblewoman whose money now backed the Staatsoper. Just before the performance, she tucked backstage to greet the actors and bid them good luck, if only so they would understand who was funding them. She stood chatting to the stagehands in the right wing, oblivious to the man who was about to change her life.

Roderich had not noticed her at first. A ball of anxiety was building in his stomach. Although he had been taking lessons from a brilliant teacher, he had only ever dreamed of performing as the premier tenor in an opening night gala at the Staatsoper. He fanned his face faintly, biting his bottom lip. Trepidation was threatening to strangle him. What if he was not good enough to replace Lovino? What if he forgot the words? What if the patroness didn’t like him? What if the Opera Ghost didn’t like him? As he stood waiting for the curtains to roll open, shifting anxiously from foot to foot, he turned his head by chance, and his eyes fell on the Gräfin.

Her tawny hair streamed down her back, tied back from her face in a manly plait, and she wore a gentleman’s suit and waistcoat. Her slightly-tanned face was just as beautiful and delicate as he imagined it would be. She was taller now, no longer a little girl, and she seemed to exude all the confidence he felt himself lacking.

“Liz,” he breathed.

“I’m sorry?” Ludwig asked, leaning in to hear better.

“The Gräfin von und zu Héderváry. Liz.”

“Ah… The girl from your childhood?”

Roderich nodded. “I doubt she remembers me anymore. It was so long ago.” He smiled mournfully, unable to tear his eyes from her face. He sighed. “Well, I hope she enjoys my music… I will sing for her, and for my teacher.”

“Who is your teacher, Roderich?” Ludwig asked. It had been months, years, since Ludwig first asked that question, and Roderich always managed to find a way to avoid it. Perhaps now, right on the cusp of victory, he may respond.

But then, Liz was gone. Roderich craned his neck to look for her, but she was no longer anywhere to be found. He puffed a disappointed sigh. “She must’ve gone up to her box…” he muttered.

“Roderich,” Ludwig prodded. “Your teacher?”

Roderich snapped his gaze to his friend as if noticing him for the first time. “What? It doesn’t concern _you_. Oh, the curtain-”

The blinding stage lights shone like angelic grace on Roderich’s face. The curtains rattled as they parted to reveal the first scene of the opera.

Unbeknownst to the actors and the patrons, a pair of red eyes was watching from the balcony.                 

 

* * *

 

She watched the performance from box five, a mild smile on her face.

The Berlin Staatsoper had a reputation of elegance and grandeur, and the performance did not disappoint. From the set to the lighting to the costumes, Liz found herself enchanted by the magic of the stage. The graceful dancers were as living set pieces, somehow neither human nor object, characterizing the heroic, modern music with their otherworldly movements. And the actors – the actors. No. There _were_ no actors, only gods and mortals, locked in the eternal caprices of war. And the man who sang in place of the infamous Lovino Vargas was by far the most captivating. 

As the show progressed, she could not help but shake the nagging feeling that she knew him from somewhere. Surely she had never heard him sing before, and yet, his talent was beyond anything she had ever seen, and his face echoed like a childhood song in her mind. He was gorgeous, and skilled, and so hauntingly familiar, a ghost at the edges of her mind. Fair face, soft violet eyes, she _knew_ him, she must have, and yet, she couldn’t have, for she was certain she would have remembered seeing an angel before.

And his voice. His voice was beyond words. Smooth and rich, light and capable, he blended the qualities of the lyric and Heldentenor masterfully. Every note was colored beyond perfection. When he sang, the stage seemed to alight in the radiance of day. He sang like champagne. He sang like the morning sun. He sang like the crashing of the waves on the beach so many years ago, when Liz had ventured into the sea to rescue a pair of wire glasses for that pale little boy… A name she had not spoken in many years.

“Roderich?” She sat forward in her seat. “Can that be my Roderich?”

It was so long ago she barely remembered. And then, she knew it. The man singing on stage was the little boy who had accompanied her so often in her youth. They had sat up in her attic telling ghost stories and pretending they weren’t scared, explored along the beach and into the Hungarian forest, listened to his mother as she lulled them to sleep with her piano…   

And there he was, captivating not only her but a full house of rich strangers with his music. She watched him earnestly, a warm smile on her face. Her Roderich. It had been so long. Did he even remember her anymore?

Onstage, he was oblivious to her. He was in the final passage of the Act I finale aria, soft pride glowing from his face. His voice warmed as the themes began wrapping up for the end of the piece. He was together once again with his beloved, and nothing could separate them. He thought of Liz, watching from her box. He sang the final phrases center stage, and the music in his heart exploded.     

_“Winter fades in the silver moonlight_

_Gentle Spring awakens in the air_

_The grass is kissed by the wind_

_And Springtime laughs in unrestrained merriment_

_As he goes to meet his temptation, Love_

_United finally once again!”_

The final notes of the orchestra had not yet finished ringing before the audience broke into a thunderous applause that shook the very opera house on its foundations. Roderich gasped softly as the audience rose to their feet in waves, still clapping as if their lives depended on it. Calls of, “Bravo! Bravo! Bravissimo!” rang through the theatre. He felt tears prick his eyes. He could not help but smile.

Somewhere, far, far below his feet, another set of hands clapped alone.

 

 

**The Angel of Music.**

Roderich’s triumphant performance followed him to his dressing room. Beilschmidt snapped at troves of adoring fans, all of whom were eager to become acquainted with the gorgeous tenor who had cropped up out of nowhere and stolen their hearts. His surrogate guardian wrestled the door shut, closing off the room from the backstage din. In Lovino’s heavily perfumed dressing room, Roderich suddenly felt exhausted.

“Well done,” Beilschmidt said. He picked up a single white rose tied with Prussian blue ribbon off the vanity and handed it to the young musician. “He is pleased.”

He.

Roderich took the rose with shaking hands. “How-”

“Get some rest, Roderich,” Beilschmidt said, shaking his head to deter questioning. “You sang very well.” He disappeared out the dressing room door without a word more, leaving Roderich alone.

For a moment, he lifted the rose to his nose, inhaling the sweet scent. The room seemed cool, dark, hidden. It was nothing like the bare rehearsal stage he was used to preparing in. He thought absentmindedly that he could get used to the luxury, especially if it came at the price of the music.

He was pulled from his musings by a sharp rap at the door. “Roderich.”

Ludwig’s voice echoed strangely around the room, as if a ghost were repeating his name. Roderich glanced around; he was alone.

“There you are,” his friend said, slipping into the dressing room. “I’ve been looking all over for you. Well done.” He paused. “Something is different, though. You were not always this good. Have you been secretly putting more effort into music than dancing?”

Roderich smiled absentmindedly. “Really, Ludwig, you’re so dense. Music has always been my first love.”

Ludwig stared at his friend, an unreadable expression on his face. His eyes drifted down to the white rose still in Roderich’s hands. “Roderich,” he insisted, “who is your teacher?”

Roderich strode to the upright full-length mirror at the back of the dressing room. He watched his own expression with glassy eyes, lost in his memories.

“When I was a little boy, I was so scared of everything… My mother, she would comfort me. She would tell me stories of an Angel of Music, who would visit me and sing to me, even after she was gone.” He paused, eyes falling to the white rose. “After she died, I thought I had lost the music forever. But then, I started to hear him in my dreams, and in my waking days. The Angel of Music. He…” Roderich trailed off, his breath coming in short little puffs. His own pale face stared back at him in the mirror, yet he felt another set of eyes boring into his soul.

“Yes?” Ludwig prodded, frowning deeply.

“He sings to me,” Roderich whispered. “Through the walls, and in my bed… In my mind. He teaches me music, just as my mother would have wanted. He… guides me. An angel.”

“Impossible,” Ludwig choked. “Stop fooling around, Roderich. That… can’t happen.”

The hair on the back of Roderich’s neck stood on end. He shivered, feeling cold eyes on him from the mirror. “He’s here now.”

“Stop it! Telling these ghost stories is pointless!”

Roderich tore his eyes away from the mirror.

“…I’m scared, Ludwig.”

“Don’t be,” Ludwig responded warily. “It... it can’t be true. There is no Angel.”

Roderich shrugged, noncommittal. “You don’t have to believe, Ludwig. I know you’re incapable of anything but cold, mechanical logic and ballet.” He glanced back once more at the mirror before fixing Ludwig with a warm gaze. “My mother would be proud of me. She sent me this angel. My music blooms for her… and for him.”

“There you go again,” muttered Ludwig. “Get some rest, Roderich. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Goodnight, Ludwig.”

Alone in his borrowed dressing room, Roderich shivered and drew himself over to the seat in front of the vanity. He stripped off the furs of his costume despite the chill, and began to wipe the makeup from his face. Lost in his thoughts, music swimming in his mind, he did not hear the door open, and did not see a figure creep into the room.

He jumped violently in the chair when a familiar voice said, “Little Roddy, always so scared of everything. He stares at his face in the mirror and tries to push thoughts of ghosts from his mind. Little Roddy thinks to himself, ‘Am I fonder of silk or of marble or of jewels?’”

Roderich grinned, warmth spreading to his extremities. “Liz.”

“‘Or of long walks on the beach, or of playing my piano?’”

“Or of porcelain teacups,” Roderich supplied. “Or napping in the sunlight?”  

“‘No,’ he said,” Liz continued, sliding down to kneel in front of him, a mischievous smile on her thin lips. “‘What I love most is when I’m asleep in my bed.’”

“And the Angel of Music sings songs in my head.”

“The Angel of Music sings songs in my head,” Liz laughed along. She melted into him, wrapping him in a tight hug. He returned the embrace with ease. They fit together perfectly. “Oh, Roderich. It’s been too long.”

He pressed his face into her shoulder, inhaling her rich, woodsy scent. “I’ve missed you. I didn’t think you’d remember me.”

“You’ve gotten taller. I figured you’d stay short forever!” She laughed again as he blushed light pink, and punched his shoulder lightly. “Roderich, you sang so beautifully tonight. Your mother would be proud.”

“I learned from the best,” Roderich smiled. He leaned in to her, whispering, “The Angel of Music.”

Liz laughed yet again, warmth in her mirthful green eyes.

“No, Liz,” he insisted. “The Angel – I don’t know if he’s my mother’s ghost, or something entirely different – he coaches me. Just as my mother said he would. The Angel of Music sings to me.”

“I’m so happy for you, Roderich,” Liz dismissed jovially. “Join me for dinner tonight? Just like old times, eh?”

Roderich glanced around the room. “I can’t. The Angel wouldn’t-” 

“The Angel can wait, Roderich Edelstein,” Liz responded, rising and moving to the door. “I haven’t seen you in years! I’ll pull my carriage around, and then we’ll go. Please come with me. I want to get caught up.”

“Liz, no-” The door shut. She was gone again. Roderich sighed and worried his lip. The room grew cold once more.

A gloved hand emerged from the shadows and slid a key into the lock. It turned with a click, and the hand withdrew.

The hair on Roderich’s arms stood up on end. Although he saw no other person in the room, he could sense another presence as acutely as he had felt Liz in his arms. The candles all around him were burning low, but they gave off no heat. His gaze fell to the white rose. He clutched it in his fingers. His breath came out in an icy mist.

Once again, a familiar voice called out, but this time, Roderich did not flinch. He let it flow around him, welcoming it back into his life. It was immaterial and rounded, a disembodied call from beyond the living opera house. The blue walls seemed to swim around him. The Angel of Music had arrived.

“That stupid girl,” the Angel spat. “She doesn’t know a thing about true music. She’s just infatuated with your good looks and your awesomeness. As well as she should be, because you’re so awesome.”

Roderich looked around the room, searching for the source of the voice. “Angel? Angel, where are you?” The voice was silent. “Please,” Roderich pleaded. “I have learned so much from you. Give me your guidance once more.”                 

After a few beats, the voice returned, as ghostly as it had always been. It seemed to fill the room with thin mist, as natural and haunting as the pipes of an organ breathing. “You attribute your awesomeness to me?” The voice cackled. “Good for you.” The walls echoed a wicked response to his stuttering laugh, which stole the breath from Roderich’s lungs.

When Roderich spoke, his voice trembled. “Angel, after so long... let me see you. Let me know your face.”

“…My face.”

The room was silent for several moments. Roderich’s heart pounded, fearful that the Angel of Music had abandoned him at his brash request. Then, his strange voice spoke again, louder and clearer than it had ever been before. Roderich’s blood pumped deafening in his ears.

“Look into the mirror, Roderich. See why I speak from the shadows.”

Roderich turned slowly to face the full-length mirror. His breath caught in his throat. Again, his pale reflection gazed back, all wide eyes and trembling lips. But this time, another face was superimposed over his own. It was the face of the Angel of Music.

A white porcelain mask concealed his true face… or perhaps that _was_ his true face, for angels were so unlike humans. A crop of silvery-white hair slicked around it, rugged and gentlemanly and wild in a way Roderich couldn’t quite place. He felt a tug in his soul that pulled him toward his Angel. His feet moved on their own, his lips parted. He saw nothing but the mirror, the face, the Angel.

“I am your Angel of Music,” the man in the mirror declared softly, savoring every word.

Roderich did not hear Liz rattle the doorknob. “Roderich? Roderich? Is there someone in there with you?”

“I am your Angel of Music,” the man repeated. His voice was hypnotic, musical. Roderich tilted his head and let his eyelids drop. The Angel’s thick voice sent tremors down his entire body. “Come to me.”

“Roderich! Angel!”

Slowly, lightly, as if moving in a dream, Roderich extended his hand out through the mirror. He laid it in the gloved hand of the Angel, and ineffable wonder swallowed him as the Angel of Music led him from the world of day and into his realm of night.              

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The physical appearance of the Berlin Staatsoper is based off the Semperoper: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Semperoper  
> The opera they are performing is a parody of Wagner's Die Walkure. On that note (hah), the aria Roderich sings is a parody on "Winterstürme wichen dem Wonnemond": https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Die_Walk%C3%BCre http://lyricstranslate.com/en/winterst%C3%BCrme-wichen-dem-wonnemond-winter-storms-gave-way-merry-moon.html https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eMmZwoLZNQ8  
> If my math is correct, 571,000 marks is actually using the inflation rate from 1915. It’s probably a different number for 30 years prior. It is, however, the more or less correct equivalent of 20,000 francs a month.  
> Spinto, lyric, and Heldontenor: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tenor  
> Sopranist: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sopranist
> 
> Gräfin is the German word for Countess.


	2. Chapter 2

**The Music of the Night.**

Strange and ancient music seemed to reverberate through the stone walls as the Angel of Music led Roderich deeper into his dark world. It was as if they had wandered to the dark side of the moon, the shadow of the brilliant opera house. Every step they took away from the mirror intoxicated Roderich further. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply through his nose. His soul pulsed to the ghostly traces of music that penetrated his very being.

The Angel’s hand was closed around his own, cajoling him further into the night. He wore thick black gloves, yet Roderich could feel the heat radiating through the soft leather. Roderich could not tear his eyes away from the man – the thing – in front of him. Well-built beneath deep-hued gentleman’s clothes, slicked hair the color of starlight in the darkness… Though Roderich could not see the Angel’s face beneath his porcelain mask, he felt ineffably drawn to the Angel. His body and his soul ached to lean into the Angel, to let him consume him with the cover of shadow. As the Angel led, he kept his body half-turned to Roderich, and barely seemed to take his blazing red eyes off of him. Whoever this strange Angel was, Roderich yearned to follow him.

Down, down, down they went, down past the earth’s crust and into the Underworld. Roderich was torn between staring at the mysterious Angel and the queer world around him. Although it was dirty, and wet, and was staining Roderich’s already nearly indecent wardrobe a grimy gray color, he had no mind to be affronted. Glimmers of iron and gold shone in the lanterns fixed to the rough stone walls. The path was bare, yet mindfully carved. Dimly, Roderich realized this was what the Paris catacombs must have looked like. But then the Angel would tuck two fingers under Roderich’s chin and tilt his head again to meet those gleaming red eyes, and the world beneath the Staatsoper faded into the background.

Realization dawned on him as the Angel led him to a spiral flight of stairs that twisted macabrely into depths beyond light’s perception. The voice who had sung to him, who had guided him, who had taught him… The voice that had penetrated his very dreams. The voice which his mother had left for him… The Angel of Music… He was...

“The Phantom of the Opera,” Roderich gasped.

The Angel glanced back at him, some glint beyond recognition in his otherworldly eyes. Roderich felt his knees weaken.

They continued down the staircase. They slipped out of time and into something purer, baser, something only music knew. Though he tired, Roderich could not stop, could not let the Angel slip from his grasp. He would go anywhere he took him. When they had been descending the stairs for what may have been half a century, the Angel paused and turned to Roderich.

He laid his gloved hand on the base of Roderich’s neck, scattering waves of goosebumps across Roderich’s pale skin. Roderich’s lips parted, and he leaned into the touch. The Angel gazed at him intently, tilting his head in ever so slightly.

“Not much farther,” he muttered in that familiar scratchy voice. “Don’t look back.”

He hesitated for just a moment longer, eyes raking across Roderich’s beautiful face. Then he steeled himself and pressed forward again, and Roderich’s breath returned to him.

They reached the end of the staircase. The air was wet in Roderich’s lungs, and his pulse pounded rapidly in his neck. The end of their long journey out of day was drawing to a close. The path they forged down reminded Roderich vaguely of a dock, or of a sewer. Somewhere ahead, he smelled cold, stagnant water.

The Angel spoke up again, awe and amusement playing across his voice. “You never knew. Not in your wildest dreams. You never knew-”

“That you were the Phantom of the Opera,” Roderich finished.

The Angel nodded. “The Angel and the man.”

Roderich’s mouth dried. “You are my voice. I am but the mask that hides your genius.”

The Angel’s eyes hardened. “You are exquisite.”

Roderich must have slipped into a dream, for when he had quite recovered from the rush of blood flowing to his head, the Angel was lowering him into a small wooden rowboat, barely large enough for two. The water around them might have gone on for eternity in all directions. It was the glassy Styx that flowed between the realms of the living and the dead. The Angel stood over Roderich, legs pressing into the young singer’s back, and rowed with a great long pole. Roderich fought the lewd temptation to rest his head back against the Angel and Phantom. They slipped through the mist and finally left the light behind.

Roderich could not hear over the rush in his ears and the moan of music in the cavernous lair. He closed his eyes and let the euphoria rush around him. And then, the Phantom bent down, and his lips behind the mask whispered into Roderich’s ear.

“Sing for me.”

His words bound Roderich like a spell. With nothing but the limitless breath the Phantom gave to him, Roderich opened his mouth to sing. He had no words, for there were none in any language to express the wonder and enthrallment and fantasy of the Phantom and his dark world. He simply sang, and let his haunting melody settle into the unearthly music that seemed to swirl around the boat. And now the Phantom was enchanted, breathing in the song like an elixir. He pushed the boat along through the water at a steady speed, and let them glide into their own secret hideaway.

A gate appeared in the mist, and opened at the Phantom’s unspoken command. The boat entered under its banner and into a small cove. Hundreds of tall yellow candles grew out of every surface like stalagmites, bathing the lair in dim fungal light. Roderich caught sight of a pipe organ, and a workbench, and papers tacked all around the walls in neat rows. A gilded birdcage sat uninhabited save for a thick leather-bound book. Despite the inherent filth of caverns and lakebeds, the tiny, secretive living space was spotless and cozy and too fantastic to be real. Roderich gazed around in wonder, letting his song end and echo around them like a siren’s imprint.

The Phantom grounded the boat and leapt out onto the grainy shore, extending a hand to raise Roderich out. Roderich took it and stepped out, eyes glazed as if he were in a dream. The mysterious man, or ghost, or Angel brought Roderich up away from the water and onto the solid rock of the lair proper. Roderich found himself distracted by what could only be the Phantom’s home. He had stumbled into a haven of genius. A world of music.

The Phantom spoke, drawing Roderich’s attention back to the being to whom he owed his soul. “Behold! My super awesome secret lair! Isn’t it awesome? Go on, admit it, you know you want to.”

Roderich could not speak. He gazed at the Phantom, lips parted wordlessly. The Phantom’s eyes and voice softened behind his expressionless white mask.

“I’ve wanted you here for so long,” he murmured, lifting a hand to cup Roderich’s cheek. Roderich leaned into the touch without realizing what he was doing. “This is my world. My eternal night. Here, there is nothing but music.”

He drew away, and Roderich’s eyes opened in protest. The Phantom turned his back and looked around the lair, inspecting his domain.

“That’s why I’ve brought you here,” he continued thoughtfully. “Ever since I first heard you sing… I have wanted nothing more than to bring you here. I have needed you for so long, Roderich. You must sing my music.” The Phantom turned back around, a smile in his voice. “And now you’ve come.”

Roderich grasped for his voice the way one grasps for consciousness after a long sleep. “Your… music?”

The Phantom swept around to the pipe organ. To Roderich’s surprise, however, he did not sit down at the bench. Instead, he reached around the side of the instrument, and pulled out what looked to be the strangest guitar Roderich had ever seen. He strapped it around his torso and placed his fingers on the neck, and began to play.

The Phantom’s music was unlike anything Roderich had ever heard before, and he was not sure if that was a good thing. The strange metal guitar possessed the drive and power and, to an extent, the tone of the pipe organ, yet was like nails being driven into Roderich’s skull. The piece, if it could even be called a piece, seemed to be written in some odd mode, vaguely Mediterranean – it did not settle into its own tonality well at all, and yet, that seemed to be part of the charm. The Phantom’s melodies were vaguely reminiscent of Vivaldi’s violin concertos; his gloved fingers flew across the neck like possessed spiders, and the resulting sound instilled an unshakeable sense of dread in Roderich’s heart. When the Phantom started ramming his strumming hand down so hard the cavern filled with the angry sound of the devil himself, Roderich stumbled backwards, covering his ears. His feet splashed into the shallows the lake, and the Phantom at once ceased. The final abandoned chords remained buzzing in the air even as he threw down his instrument and hurried to Roderich’s side.

The Phantom placed a steadying hand on Roderich’s back and guided him forward, bringing him well away from the water. Roderich’s skin burned at the touch.

“The world isn’t ready for my music yet,” the Phantom announced proudly. “Luckily, I have a few more tricks up my sleeve.” He stepped over again to the organ, and wound a great cog that stuck out from the instrument’s side. When he let it go, music began to play on its own through the gleaming pipes.

This, Roderich could appreciate. The soothing chords swept Roderich’s heart away like a great gust of wind, and he rode the gentle zephyr in an enamored haze. The consonant pitches sighed into each other, implementing sweet dissonance only to tease Roderich’s mind to the resolution. He closed his eyes to drown in the beauty. And then the Phantom began to sing.

His voice was as familiar as air, yet, in person, it stole Roderich’s heart. He was a smooth, bright tenor, one whose raw tone complemented the style in which he taught his pupil. As he sang, Roderich felt the last of his defenses collapse. The Phantom reached out tentatively, brushing his fingers along Roderich’s jaw. When he did not pull away, the mysterious being wrapped his arm around Roderich’s waist, pulling him into an intimate embrace from behind. The Phantom craned his neck over Roderich’s shoulder, singing softly, so softly, into his ear.

He sang of night, and of sleep, and of beauty. He sang of fearlessness and blind instinct and ineffable release. He sang of revelation. He sang of desire. He sang of his music’s power, and of the yearning in his heartstrings. And as he sang, he let himself, for truly the first time since he had first heard Roderich sing so long ago, touch. His hands ghosted over the young tenor’s hips, and his stomach, and his arms, savoring the sweet scent of his thick dark hair. Roderich could do nothing to resist the Phantom’s power, nor had he any desire but to be touched by this strange Angel. He tilted his head back, eyes closed, lips parted, breaths shallow, as the Phantom baptized him to the music of the night.

Then, just as suddenly as he had enraptured him, the Phantom disappeared from Roderich’s body. Roderich opened his eyes and looked for the Phantom, moving faintly toward him in a daze. The Phantom was moving toward a thick velvet curtain that lay against the wall of the cave. He beckoned Roderich closer, and let the mechanical music speak, pursing his lips behind his mask in anticipation.

Roderich stumbled toward him and placed a trembling hand on the side of the Phantom’s face, fingers curling around the mask and brushing the smooth skin beneath porcelain. The Phantom sighed, and curled his fingers around Roderich’s wrist to draw him away. He snaked his arm around his waist and turned him toward the curtain. He pulled a golden rope, and the curtains parted, revealing a mannequin so verisimilitudinous that Roderich at first thought he was looking into a mirror. Then, after a beat, he saw the mannequin’s attire, white wedding clothes and a crown of flowers, and, finally, he was overwhelmed. He fainted clean away into the Phantom’s arms.

The Phantom cackled to himself at the perfect timing, for the music began to soften into the hush of darkness. He easily carried Roderich bridal style through a sheath of sheer black cloth and placed him in his own bed. He smiled down at the unconscious young man, reaching out to stroke his soft dark hair tenderly.

“Only you, Roderich,” he crooned gently. “You magnificent bastard.”

For his own sake, he lifted his voice to the final line of the song. As he sustained the last pitch, he crept from the room, grinning like an idiot. He let the sheer curtain fall back into place just as the song’s final chord swelled, leaving Roderich to his dreams of strange new music and Angels and Phantoms and wedding days.     

 

 

**Stranger Than You Dreamt It.**

Roderich dreamt, but when he awoke, he could recall nothing of the past few hours. Images of deformed faces behind white masks and strong, gentle hands dissipated to nothing when he slipped back into consciousness. He awoke as one breaches the surface of water the same temperature as the air; he did not realize when his eyes opened, but found that they had been for some time before he truly processed that he was awake.

He was in a strange bed. His first instinct was disgust, but the bed was ornate and plush, and much nicer than anything he had been sleeping on in the ballet dormitory. Although the walls of the room were as a cave, none of wet air’s dinginess clung to his skin in a sickly manner. He sat up in the foreign bed, struggling to remember where he was.

He searched through his memories as he slowly rose to his feet and wandered away from the bed. His last memory… was mist. Mist that breathed as organically as a pipe organ, swirling around on top of a lake. The lake, its surface like smooth scryer’s obsidian… he travelled it on a boat… And candles… there were candles all around the boat. The sight of them greeted him as he smoothed away the sheer curtain and stepped into the main cavern. And in the boat… there was… a man…

The Phantom of the Opera was hunched over his organ, tapping his fingers along the keys without pressing. He did not notice Roderich had awakened. Slowly, Roderich crept toward the dark man, his hand outstretched and longing for the give of the Phantom’s black waistcoat. As he crept closer, the Phantom turned, startled at the noise.

“Oh! Shit! You’re awake!” He scrambled up from the organ, hands flying wildly around his body as if he was unsure what to do with them. He finally settled on resting one behind his head and the other on the instrument. “Did you, um, how was, shit…”

Roderich squinted in wonder and closed the distance between them. He could feel embarrassed heat radiating off the Phantom’s body, so close to his. Surely, this was a man? What Angel or Phantom would be lurking beneath the Staatsoper in this dark, murky cavern?

“Phantom?” Roderich breathed, searching in those deep red eyes for some sign of humanity. “How is it possible?”

The Phantom released a breath he was holding and clapped his hand tenderly on Roderich’s shoulder. He gave it a reassuring squeeze, reveling in the feel of skin beneath the wispy white fabric. “Gilbert,” he muttered.

“I beg your pardon?”

The Phantom looked away. “My name is Gilbert.”

Roderich frowned and angled his head. “Gilbert,” he tested. “Curious… Are all Angels named like men?”

The Phantom – Gilbert? – might have been grinning beneath his full-face mask. “Nah, baby. I’m one of a kind.” His tone softened. He moved his other hand to rest on the edge of Roderich’s jaw, thumb tracing over the smooth pale skin. “So are you. I’ve needed you here for so long… Roderich.”

Roderich closed his eyes. Idly, he began to wonder what an Angel’s lips felt like. What they tasted like. What sounds they let slip when pressed against his own. He traced his hands along the Phantom’s jawline, felt its square shape beneath the ovular mask. The Phantom sighed, then attempted to stifle the sound. Roderich smiled through half-lidded eyes, searching what little he could see of the Phantom’s face.

“Who was that man in the boat… Gilbert?” Roderich murmured. The Phantom’s eyes went wide and soft. Roderich pried the mask from his skin.

"Shit! Fuck! Don’t look at me!” The Phantom recoiled, pushing Roderich away. They both tottered and stumbled in opposite directions, Roderich falling to the ground. The Phantom took refuge against the organ, hands clutching his pale, ghostly face to hide its horror. He cowered with his back to Roderich, moaning, “I’m hideous.”

Roderich fought to formulate words with his tongue, fought to find the right thing to say, but could not help but fall short. He inspected his skinned palms, sheepish at glancing again upon the corpse-like face of the Phantom of the Opera. He shook violently. His heart pound painfully in his chest. He drew breath in terrified gasps.

The Phantom shuddered against the organ. Roderich realized with horror that the peculiar clacking _kesesese_ noise he was making was bitter laughter. Slowly, dangerously, the Phantom straightened to his feet, his back still turned.

“Ugly, ain’t I?” the Phantom seethed. His voice was strained, cold – like the strings of a piano left out in the snow. “Oh well. It doesn’t matter that I’m a hideous, death-faced _freak_ of nature, does it? After all, looks aren’t everything, right? _Kesesese!_ Oh, Roderich, you naïve, _prying_ little boy. You should have never tried to look under my silly little mask. Tsk tsk. Now I can’t ever let you go. You’re mine forever, baby!” He spat out a strain of stuttering laughter again. Madness crept at the edges of his voice.

“I- I’m sor-”

The Phantom cut off Roderich’s apology, making no note that he had even heard. “I don’t blame you though. After all, with a body like mine? Heck, I’d be curious too! Sadly, not all of us get the looks _and_ the brains. Not all of us are you…” He turned around to face Roderich, still hiding behind his hands. “But you’ll learn. In time, you’ll come to see just how pretty I am. I mean, what does a little pigmentation _really_ ruin, if we think about it? You’ll see, Roddy. You’ll see. You’ll love me. Just you wait. Now,” he grinned, removing his hands and leering down into Roderich’s face. “How about a kiss?”

Roderich wordlessly handed the Phantom his mask. He kept his gaze averted as the madman silently pressed it back into place. He offered a gloved hand and hauled Roderich back to his feet.

“Well, that was exciting,” the Phantom drawled. “How about next time you feel like traumatizing someone, you do it to someone who deserves it?”

“…I didn’t realize,” Roderich squeaked. “I apologize, I- ”

The Phantom held up a hand. “Enough. You can pay me back later. You should be getting back.”

Roderich balked. “But didn’t you just say- I’m sorry, perhaps I misunderstood. Didn’t you say that you’re keeping me forever?”

The Phantom blinked. “Well, yeah. But like, in a metaphorical sense, not a literal sense. Come on. Everyone probably thinks you’re dead, or at least fucked senseless by that Héderváry chick. Let’s go scare the shit out of them, eh?”

 

 

**Notes.**        

Francis Bonnefoy was not an overly dramatic man.

Sure, he liked his fine wine, and his rose petals, and his fashionable trousers. Of course, he found sighs and gasps and merry laughter to be as suitable punctuation as any. And yes, he had purchased an opera house alongside a man with whom he cherished and maintained a delectable lifelong animosity. But none of those tiny character quirks _truly_ painted him the picture of the French dramatist.

He was a man of restraint. A man of aloofness. A man of suave calm and discipline.

A man who tore through the opera swearing up a storm the morning after his triumphant gala the night before. He moved briskly, not quite running, pacing rapidly up and down the golden staircase in the atrium. In one hand, he clutched an ivory envelope, and in the other, his pounding temple.

"Sacrebleu! We have owned this damn German opera house for one day and already all of our cast is gone! Boo! What have we done to deserve this?” He wished greatly for a glass of wine between his nimble fingers.

The washers along the steps paid him no mind. He had been interrupting their work for about an hour by then, and, like a rather dashing music box, he seemed confined to playing the same tune over and over again.

“First we lose those darling little Italian brothers, and now our handsome Austrian replacement? Where did he _go_ , anyway? He never came out last night! The press is going crazy trying to pin his disappearance down on someone! I mean, our seats for the week our sold out as a result, but _where is our tenor?”_

The doors of the Staatsoper burst open as Kirkland strode in like a thunderstorm. “Francis, stop talking to yourself and start talking to me! Where the hell has our cast gone?”

Francis leapt gracefully down the steps to meet his partner. For the sake of contrariness, he piped up, “Calm down, you silly Englishman. You saw the crowd of people outside our theatre. With no cast comes great publicity!”

“With no cast comes no cast, you dolt!” Kirkland roared, waving a clenched fist in Bonnefoy’s face. Bits of thin ivory stationary poked out from between his knuckles. Bonnefoy closed his fingers around Kirkland’s hand, causing the Englishman to draw back in panic. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Stop flattering yourself, you lime,” Bonnefoy tutted. “I want to see the note in your hand.”

Kirkland scowled and revealed a crumpled up letter. “It appeared in the post this morning.”

“I received one as well. What does it say?”

Kirkland cleared his throat and began to pace with Bonnefoy as he read. “‘Dear loser, your gala was pretty awesome last night. Roderich Edelstein was pretty much the best thing since the domestication of the pigeon, and a lot hotter and better at singing, too. Stop casting Lovino as the principle tenor. He’s a total diva, and even though he’s attractive, he’s got nothing on my Roderich.’ It’s signed… P. T. O.”

Bonnefoy grimaced. “Well, that was not so bad. Listen to mine. ‘Dear Francis, friendly reminder that I want money. 571,000 marks a month, sent by return of post. I’m not kidding. Get me my money.’ At least my valediction is nicer: ‘Your friend, the Opera Ghost.’”

Kirkland threw his hands up. “For the love of… Who taught this man how to write? These are hardly grammatical! And his handwriting is atrocious!” He paused his raving, looking wildly around the opulent empty opera house. “What sort of ghost demands money, anyway?”

“Clearly, we are dealing with some sort of madman,” Bonnefoy remarked. “But it is so romantic!” He laid his hand across his forehead, swooning backwards into Kirkland’s flustered arms. “The opera! The star! A lovesick ghost! Crowds of fans, all eager to see the mysteriously disappeared object of a phantom’s sweet ardor!”

“Quit quoting Gluck and do something about this!”

“Where is he!” The doors again burst open and in strode the Gräfin Elizabeta von und zu Héderváry, wearing gentleman’s trousers and a steamed expression. “What have you done with Roderich?”

Kirkland pushed Bonnefoy from his arms. “What have _we_ done with him? What have _you_ done with him?”

“What have _I_ done with him? What have _you_ done with him?”

“Didn’t he leave with you last night?” Bonnefoy interjected.

“Obviously not!” Liz waved an ivory note in their faces. “It’s all in the note you sent me!”

“Arthur, did you send Gräfin von und zu Héderváry a note?”

“No. Did you?”

“This isn’t your note?” She held it up to her face to read. “‘You might as well forget Roderich ever existed, little girl, because he’s with the Angel of Music now, and the Angel of Music didn’t go to kindergarten so he doesn’t know how to share. Don’t try to find him. Like in the cellars or anything. Go marry an Ottoman or something instead. Signed, P.T.O.’”

Kirkland huffed. “Why on _Earth_ would you assume we wrote this?”

Liz gestured to Bonnefoy with a casual shrug. “Well, he’s so creepy that I just figured...”

“Wounded, _ma dame_.”

Again, the doors of the opera house burst open. The Vargas brothers hurried inside, Feliciano holding Lovino’s hand as the older brother stormed toward the small group of addressees comparing letters on the steps.

“Alright, bastards, who sent me this letter?” Lovino roared, flapping yet another ivory note in the air. “I’m about three seconds away from ripping someone’s arms off, so you’d better answer me quickly!”

“Good to see you again, Herren Vargas,” Bonnefoy remarked coolly.

Kirkland clutched his face in his hands, counting very slowly. “Lovino, if you don’t mind… Who is your note addressed from?”

“P.T.O!” cried Feliciano. “We figured that that might have been Patroness of the Opera, or Pasta Tray Overload, or Probably the Owners.”

“I’d reckon your first guess was the closest,” Kirkland sighed. “Although it seems more likely to be from some sort of vicious prankster going by the moniker ‘Phantom of the Opera.’”

The Vargas brothers paled. They were no strangers to the superstitions of the theatre. “W-what the hell does that mean, huh?” Lovino growled. The brothers drew closer together, taking refuge in the safety of numbers.   

“Your note, Lovino… What does it say?”

Lovino read aloud from the stationary. Every word drove spikes of panic into the chests of the listeners.

“‘You’re good, but not _that_ good. Roderich is better than you. Ha ha! Oh, and he’s singing your part tonight in the opera. If you try to resist, I’ll rain hell down upon you and your precious opera house. So don’t do it! Love, P.T.O’”

Kirkland and Bonnefoy exchanged a look. “I don’t like this, Francis. I don’t like this at all.”

Francis groaned and began to pace again. “If I hear one more word about Roderich Edelstein, as beautiful as he is, I think I might rip my hair out.”

“Roderich Edelstein is back,” Herr Beilschmidt said, stepping into the light of the opera house. Kirkland gestured for Bonnefoy to have a go at his hair.

“Thank god!” Liz cried. She ran to Beilschmidt, clasping her hands. “Is he alright? Can I see him?”

“He’s asleep,” Beilschmidt said. “And he specifically asked to be left alone.”

“Little lord,” Lovino sneered. “Who does he think he is, huh? Stealing _my_ role? Disappearing from _my_ dressing room?”

“But is he hurt?” Liz insisted.

“Forget that- is he going to sing?” Lovino asked.

Beilschmidt produced an ivory envelope. “I have a note.”

There was a small uproar. For a brief moment, it looked as if the two owners were about to brawl for custody of the note. Liz reached for the letter, only to be shoved out of the way by Lovino. Feliciano, for his part, simply screamed. A brief bickering match broke out among the owners, the patroness, and the Italian singers, all vying for a chance to read the latest in this grim series of Angelic epistles. 

Beilschmidt growled, his upper lip twitching. “Quiet!”

The havoc paused, and all looked at the older man expectantly.

“‘I’ve sent you a few friendly little letters,’” Beilschmidt began, reading the note, “‘and I’m sure you’ve received them well. But, but, but, you have not been listening to my instructions! So, here’s what I’m gonna do. I’ve decided to return Roderich to you. I know, I’m very charitable. But I want to see him become a star! So, here are your new instructions:

“‘Tonight in your production of _Bacchus in the Arborworld,_ Lovino will play the silent role of the Host. Roderich will play Zeus. You see, this is very clever, because then, Lovino will not sing or speak, and Roderich will be a handsome and all-powerful god! It’s perfect! I’m a genius! Ha ha! Oh yeah, and I’ll be watching, losers, so you better keep Box 5 empty for me like I told you to! Make sure Roderich’s trousers are suitably tight. From the Awesome Opera Ghost, with love.’”

There was a beat of silence. Then, Lovino began to shout.

“I knew it! I knew it!” He wagged a finger in Liz’s face. “This was a plot all along! You want to aid Roderich and see me and my little brother suffer! _Traditori! Mentitori!_ ”

He threw up his hands and ran up the steps, fleeing into the recesses of the Staatsoper. The owners exchanged a terrified look and began to give chase. Feliciano joined them, pattering after his brother and begging him to calm down. Beilschmidt also joined the chase, silently following behind to monitor the owners’ decisions. Liz tagged after them all, anxious to glean more information on Roderich’s night.

"Herr Vargas! Please! These notes mean nothing!” Kirkland pleaded. Lovino slammed the door to his dressing room.

“We will not give in to the whims of a delusional ghost,” Bonnefoy added. A crash sounded from within the room.

Feliciano knocked on the door. “Big brother! Please let me in! It’s okay, nobody hates you! Are you crying, Lovino?” Lovino responded with a strangled sob.

Beilschmidt stood behind the spectacle like a disapproving statue. “It would not be wise to ignore the wishes of the Angel of Music,” he said. “He is always here. He will know.”

                “Enough of this ‘Angel of Music’ nonsense!” Kirkland sputtered. They succeeded in breaking open Lovino’s door, and the small crowd poured inside like water through a crumbled dam. “Herr Vargas, what are we to do without your voice? Your talent?”

“Why don’t-a you ask Herr Roderich Edelstein?” Lovino spat through hot tears. “I’m sure Herr Poncy Potato would be glad to sing for you! _O, lasciatemi morire!_ ”

Liz gripped Beilschmidt’s lapels intently. “Herr Beilschmidt, where did Roderich go last night?”

“Lovino, please! There’s nothing to cry about!” Lovino began to cry harder. Kirkland and Bonnefoy got down on their knees in front of him, hands clasped. “Lovino! You are our _primo uomo_!”

“Nothing you say can make up for this, bastards! _O, diseradato! Sventurato!”_

“Lovino, listen! Roderich will be playing the Host,” Bonnefoy cried. He nodded to himself. “The Host, which is the silent role. Lovino, _you_ will play the lead!”

Lovino’s breath hitched, his red face soaked with angry tears. Feliciano gave him a sunny smile. “Really, bastards?”

“But of course!” Bonnefoy replied. “You are our _primo uomo_!” Lovino seemed to like the sound of that repetition.

“Really?” he said. “Tell me more.”

Beilschmidt seemed to understand a lost cause when he saw one. He slipped out of the dressing room in disgust. Liz took notice and trotted after him. Behind them, the boisterous noises of groveling and flagrant appeasement echoed around Lovino and his smiling brother. Given the characters contained within the room, Liz was certain they would be at it for quite some time. She suddenly felt a need to be away from all the ruckus.

Beilschmidt led Liz deeper into the opera house, never seeming to notice her trailing behind him like a hopeful puppy. He took a twisted, untraceable route through side halls and passageways. Liz’s head spun at the strange path she followed. Perhaps Roderich never leaving the Staatsoper last night was not so hard to believe after all.

Beilschmidt arrived at the top of a rickety staircase, his hand over the doorknob to the ballet dormitories. Finally, Liz called out to him.

“Herr Beilschmidt! Please, let me ask you about Roderich!”

Beilschmidt paused. He turned to face Liz silently. His rigid face was grave, yet he nodded. “Very well.”

Liz looked around to be sure none could hear her. Given the lengthening shadows all around, she was not entirely certain they were ever truly alone. “Last night,” she whispered, “I heard a voice in Roderich’s dressing room with him. I tried the door, but it was locked. He never came out.” She scratched her head, eyebrows knitted together. “It sounds absolutely crazy, but… Roderich, before he disappeared last night, he mentioned… an Angel…?”

Beilschmidt’s blue eyes turned distant. “It is too late for Roderich. He has heard the Angel of Music’s call, and he has answered. There is no going back.”

Liz stomped her foot. “What does that _mean_? Why so cryptic?”

“Gräfin, please,” Beilschmidt said, holding out a hand in warning. “He has cursed the opera. It would be unwise to say more. Good day.”

He slipped into the dormitory, leaving Liz to the mercy of this obscure corner of the Staatsoper. All around her, she felt eyes boring into her skin. Angels of Music. Phantoms of the Opera. She would not have it. Not in her opera house. Not in her life. Not in her Roderich’s psyche.

She growled. “Oh, fine. Keep your secrets, Herr Beilschmidt. It’s just silly superstition anyway.”   

She felt a cold, stuttering laughter surround her, seeming to emanate from the walls themselves. She drew her suit jacket around her more tightly as goosebumps erupted on her arms.

“Right?”

In the dressing room far below, Lovino began to prepare for his role as Zeus in the night’s opera. The very core of the opera house seemed to quiver in trepidation. They were disobeying the Phantom’s orders. They were spoiled fools, all of them. The deep shadows grew deeper, and eyes glinted out of every hiding spot. A cruel apparition was about. And he wanted to sit in Box 5.

Liz could not shake the feeling that, somehow, somewhere, a twisted, malicious man had just declared war on the Berlin Staatsoper.        

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The mode Gilbert plays on his guitar is the Locrian mode, which is often implemented in metal music. When studying Western classical music, many teachers “do not believe in” the Locrian mode. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Locrian_mode
> 
> Francis quotes the Gluck aria “O del mio dolce ardor”, whose first line is translated as “Oh desired object of my sweet ardor.” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gqfafRzyxN0
> 
> Bacchus in the Arborworld is a blatant parody of Orpheus in the Underworld. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Orpheus_in_the_Underworld
> 
> A primo uomo is the male version of a prima donna. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prima_donna


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